Sally Bishop eBook

“Yes,” a woman’s voice replied in
a nervous undertone. “I came to see you,
to see if you were in. I—­I wanted to
see you.” The words were stilted with nervous
repetitions.

“Of course, of course; come in; let me introduce
you to my sister. Oh—­you must—­come
in—­please; we’ve been dining together
and came on here—­for coffee—­”

He threw the door wide open, and Sally walked apprehensively
into the room.

CHAPTER XXI

Superficially, training is everything. The heaven-born
genius comes once in a century of decades to remind
us, as it were, that there is such a thing as creation;
but beyond the heaven-born genius, training, on a
day of superficialities, must win.

This moment, when Sally stood but a few paces within
Traill’s room, and looked—­half-appealing,
half-guardedly—­at Mrs. Durlacher, the perfect
woman of society—­perfectly robed, perfectly
mannered, perfectly painted, was a moment as superficial
as one, so charged with possibilities, could be.
And through that moment, over it, almost as if it
were an occurrence of her daily life, Mrs. Durlacher
rode as a swallow rides on an upland wind—­pinions
stretched straightly out—­the consummate
absence of effort; all the training of numberless
years and numberless birds of the air in its wings.

“Dolly—­this is Miss Bishop—­my
sister, Mrs. Durlacher.” Traill stamped
through the ceremony, like a man through a ploughed
field.

In the minute fraction of time that followed—­so
short that no one in reason could call it a pause—­Mrs.
Durlacher had moulded a swift impression of Sally.
Two facts—­guide-ropes across a swinging
bridge—­she held to for support in her sudden
calculation. Firstly, Sally’s appearance—­the
quiet, inexpensive display of a gentle taste.
The blouse, showing through the little short-waisted
coat—­home-made—­that, seen at
a glance. The hat, with its quite artistic and
unobtrusive colours—­self-trimmed—­the
frame-work a year behind the fashion. The gloves,
no holes in them, but well-worn. The skirt—­not
badly cut, but obviously a cheap material. The
person, herself—­more than probably a milliner’s
assistant. Secondly, the fact that she was in
her brother’s rooms. She knew Jack’s
dealings with women—­did not even close
her eyes to them—­admitted them to be human
and natural so long as he refrained from tying himself
up with any one of them and thereby irretrievably
separating himself from her and her set. With
these two facts, then, she made her ultimate deduction
of Sally’s identity—­a milliner’s
assistant, with a pardonable freedom of thought in
the matter of propriety—­and on that deduction,
she acted accordingly. Ah, but it was acting that
was finished and superb!

Her manner was gracious—­she was compelled
to accept her brother at his word, that he would let
no one in who could offend her sense of propriety—­yet
it was graciousness which you saw through a polished
glass, but could not touch. When Sally half-ventured
forward with hand tentatively lifting, she bowed first—­made
it plain to Sally that in such a manner introductions
were taken—­then generously offered her
hand, palpably to ease Sally’s confusion.